


Interior Monologue: Final Act

by wolfy_writing



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Everything that can go wrong does go wrong, Gen, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, and also some things that can't, walking trauma sponge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 08:00:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14972675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfy_writing/pseuds/wolfy_writing
Summary: Between Deadpool: World's Greatest and the Despicable DeadpoolI'm not good at anticipating or categorizing triggers, but assume there's going to be a lot of them.Spoilers for the Gerry Duggan run





	Interior Monologue: Final Act

Okay, so once upon a time, off in wilds of Canada, there was a little boy named Wade Winston Wilson.

Yes, Canada. That’s the version we’re going with. In fact screw it, let’s say Regina, because I liked that one joke from the movie and I want to steal it.

So little Wade, aside from having an unusually severe form of Alliterative Naming Syndrome, had a pretty good life. (Yes, I know, it’s a retcon, go read the Duggan run.) He had a mother and a father, who loved him very much, and were also very sound sleepers who wouldn’t have felt a thing.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Wade was trouble. Wade was a handful. Wade was an underachiever, easily distracted, unmotivated, bad at turning in homework, good at getting in fights, and prone to setting things on fire way beyond the “We’ll laugh about it later” level.

Wade was, in other words, completely fucking broken. Defective straight out of the womb, please return for a full refund or the replacement child of your choice.

But no one had a clue. They signed him up for baseball, hoping to teach him teamwork and cooperation. (Ask Bullseye how well that works.). They had guidance counselors talk to him about the difference between fantasy and reality, and the importance of not setting his own butt on fire. They hired tutors, tested him for ADHD, sent him to a child psychologist, did everything to give their boy a chance.

Spoiler Alert: it didn't fucking work.

Nothing works.

Wade joined the army. That’s right, there are countries in the world _stupid_ enough to hand him guns! On _purpose_!

But Wade proved really shitty at being a grunt. And then really shitty at figuring out what else to do. And then really shitty at tying a noose. (Yep, base full of guns, and he went for the noose. What an idiot! We’re talking king of the dipshits here!)

(You have any idea how many people would still be _alive_ if I’d just gotten that fucking knot tied correctly?)

Anyway, not _actually_ being dead, he was offered a few special options. Including the chance to make use of his major talent. (Well, one of them. The other being an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.)

And that’s when the world learned what Wade What-A-Fucking-Fuckup Wilson was actually _good_ at.

(Spoiler alert: it’s killing!) As it turns out, the cure for being suicidal is killing _other_ people! Shoot enough people and you feel so much better about yourself. You’re all “At least I’m not one of _those_ dead losers!”

(For a while.)

Wade had many happy years of official and semi-official and eventually private-sector Bang-Bang-Kaboom funtimes, and a nice girl named Vanessa who also provided illegal services, although in her case, the client only ended up bleeding if he provided a _lot_ of money and a safeword.

And then life decided that “career criminal who hurts people for money and a girlfriend in the sex trade who’s only lying about _one_ major thing that will _definitely_ have an effect on both of their lives” was way too good for Wade Wilson. So it was bye-bye happiness, hello cancer! And then bye-bye Vanessa, hello secret government lab! (You get fucked either way, but one is way less sexy.)

When your diagnosis is “A lot of cancer, like just _so much cancer_ , how are you even walking around?”, the doctors aren’t exactly optimistic.

Young, stupid, and wanting to avoid dying of cancer of the everything, Wade signed up for the Weapon X project. Where they gave him a healing factor straight out of Canada’s shortest and grumpiest superhero, and he had many awesome adventures as a ruggedly-handsome, just-morally-ambiguous-enough-to-be-charming Canadian superhero, and everyone lived happily ever after!

Only no, this is the story of Wade Wilson, God’s Personal Toilet, so that didn’t happen.

Wade’s healing factor crapped out, and all , and he got sent to the _other_ lab. The lab for people who _don’t_ put on snazzy costumes and save Canada from the forces of…rabid moose? Look, we’re Canada, we don’t have many threats.

(I fought a cow once.)

Anyway, were were we?

Oh, that’s right.

Hell.

There was a Dr. Killbrew. _That_ name should have tipped me off right away. And Francis, whose last name was Fanny, and he absofuckingloutly deserved that. And a _fun_ little game called the dead pool, where they bet on how long it would take you to die.

And…I don’t want to talk about this bit any more.

Anyway, that’s where Wade met the girl of his dreams.

The Spanish call her La Muerte. She’s know as Liwa in Zaire.

(It’s the Congo again.)

(Is it? Crap. I can never keep track.)

Anyway, there was the one, the only, my special lady, Death herself.

She promised Wade, or what was left of him, the one thing he wanted more than anything, a chance to make it all stop.

But it turns out, the lady is a liar.

(You’re smokin’ hot, babydoll, but a liar is _absolutely_ what you are.)

Because you know what they gave Wade the Broken? They gave him the king-shit motherfucker swinging dick of all healing factors. The Energizer Bunny on crack healing factor. The secret-love-child-of-the-Rock-and-the-Hulk of healing factors. The there-are-literally-multiple-people-running-around-who-are-made-of-leftover-bits-of-me-that-just-wouldn’t-die healing factor.

And then Francis ripped Wade’s heart out.

Literally, not metaphorically.

Anyone else, that would have been Game Over. But not Wade, no. He doesn’t _get_ to quit the game.

Wade, newly regrown heart and all, broke out of there, pulling the place down behind him. He put on a mask, raked in the extra cash as a costumed merc (if you wear a mask, people think you’re better and you can charge more) and life worked out.

Except for one little thing that went wrong.  What was it?  Oh, that’s right, literally everything.

Vanessa? Died, came back, had a breakdown (and not the fun, charming kind like mine), and is currently...either far away, or stalking me again by posing as literally anyone. (She’s a mutant shapeshifter. I can’t trust _any_ chimichanga vendor now, and do you know how much that hurts?)

Siryn? She moved on. Realized she could do better.

Typhoid Mary...not talking about Mary.

(Can’t get the feel of her touch off, even if you scrub until your skin starts to bleed.)

And you know the king turd on the shit sundae?

Butler. Or Bartol Utler, which really, _that’s_ the best you can do? Butler, real name B. Utler?

Anyway, good old Utler asked Wade for a favor. The cure for cancer, or a chance to make it. And while he had Wade strapped down and sedated, he decided to play around.

And I don’t mean video games.

See, he’d get Wade to do jobs for him. Merc jobs, but not the regular kind. The kind Wade wouldn’t touch if he knew all of the details. The kind it was helpful for Wade to forget about afterward.

Including a very nice Canadian couple who only seemed vaguely, confusingly familiar, and who I’m going to say were incredibly sound sleepers who died peacefully of asphyxiation before the fire got that far.

(They say it’s like going to sleep, so if you were already asleep, it wouldn’t be that bad, right?)

(They kept your room exactly like it was in high school. They saved all of your baseball trophies. They were waiting for you to come home, and when you did - )

(SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! DON’T MAKE ANOTHER GODDAMN THOUGHT!)

(When their long-lost boy came home - )

(One more word, and it’s home lobotomy time!)

(...)

(Good.)

You’d think that would be the worst of it, but no! Turns out all of the imagination Butler _didn’t_ use in creating code names did get used in creative nastiness.

See, there was this girl called Carmelita. And she and Wade hooked up. (He had the mask on, which is why she didn't puke and run away until afterward.) And she had a little baby girl called Ellie, who is far too beautiful and impossibly perfect to make sense as Wade Wilson’s child.

Butler grabbed them. Took Ellie to his brother, Joshua Utler, who was the best and least evil of the Utlers. Josh took Ellie in and gave her a good home, and I wouldn’t have minded if he’d survived. Or at least not gotten killed right in front of Ellie. Poor kid’s been through enough.

Carmelita went to...you know what’s worse than a _regular_ North Korean prison camp? Neither did I, but motherfucking Butler _invented_ it somehow.

She...didn’t survive.

Ellie went to Preston, one of Wade’s few surviving friends. (Well, sort-of surviving. Well, she was murdered by a zombie president because Wade failed to protect her, and her spirit piggybacked around inside his head for a while, up until she got a robot body. Does ‘possessed robot’ count as surviving?).

(Do other people have these problems?)

(Dude, what do I keep telling you? This is a comic book! _Everyone_ has those problems! Except Squirrel Girl, and it’s only a matter of time until they give her a terrible Dark and Angsty makeover, probably with creepy sexist overtones.)

(Look, I can deal with hallucinating narration boxes, but I am _not_ hallucinating Tumblr. Take that analysis of social implications outside.)

(You’re just saying that because you’re a problematic representation of negative stereotypes about mental illness, being violent, dangerous, having a confused jumble of mental illness symptoms instead of fitting any particular diagnostic category, having every attempt at treatment go catastrophically wrong, and occasionally possessed of magic wisdom that no sane person can access.)

(That was _one_ time! And the TV was _too_  sending me secret messages!)

Anyway, there was this murder clown with a deformed face…no, a _different_ one, although we did share the same body for a while.

He nearly killed Ellie and the whole Preston family, and Wade made a bargain to save the only good thing that came from his shitty, shitty, nightmare life. An ugly bargain with a nasty son of a bitch, one he knew was going to bite him on the ass.

Oh, and throw in a messy divorce, while you’re at it.

But Wade was hopeful things could turn around. He still had _one_ actual friend, his little girl was alive, and Captain American chose _him_ as a team member to be relied on.

Guess how that worked out? Did you guess involve the poison that was Wade Why The Hell Does He Exist Wilson nuking absolutely everything in his life, leaving yet another friend dead?

Then you vastly underestimated the power of Wade Wilson to fuck everything up.

Because, okay yes, this ended with the betrayal and murder of Wade’s friend Preston! (You know Preston, the person who had faith in Wade, and cared what happened to him, and thought he could possibly become something better? Yeah, he smashed her until she broke.  And _maybe_ the pieces are salvageable, or maybe he's just _telling_ himself they are so he doesn't have to live with what he did.)

But there’s more! Wade having to raise his own daughter for once gave her a chance to find out what appallingly shitty father he was, and now she hates him and literally ran away rather than dealing with his negligent selfish ass for one more second.

And that’s only the sprinkles on this particular shit sundae. No, the king sewage itself is Wade facilitating a fascist takeover of the United States.

Yeah, that’s right, Hail Hydra or whatever.

And no, I didn’t mean it, but it doesn’t fucking _matter_ if you mean it, it doesn’t _matter_ what you believe inside, no one gives a _shit_ if you’re a real true Hydra loyalist in your heart or not. They only care about the side you picked. They think siding with a pack of Hydra fucks makes you just another Hydra fuck.

And they’re fucking _right_.

Anyway, now he gets to kill his surviving best friend. Now you tell me. When you look at the whole picture, the deaths, the destruction, the North Korean human experimentation camp, the constant risk of zombie apocalypse (Headpool, long story), don’t you think _everyone_ would have been better off if the noose had held?

(Negasonic Teenage Warhead said you saved the world from her bad decisions.)

(Yeah, but that was in a reality that doesn’t exist, so it doesn’t count.)

(But it doesn’t exist because you saved everyone!)

(Stuff that didn’t happen doesn’t count!)

(Are you just making up rules that let you hate yourself more?)

(You think I _need_ to do that?)

(You know everything Butler did wasn’t your fault, right? It’s all stuff he tricked you into, stuff he brainwashed you into, stuff you didn’t know about, and stuff he left you too broken to stop. He had you drugged and vivisected for organ harvesting dozens of times. That’s not something _you_ did to the world, that’s something _he_ did to _you_.)

(He couldn’t have done it if I didn’t have the healing factor.)

(So what are you blaming yourself for now, getting cancer, or believing that the government program that promises to save you from cancer _isn’t_ going to leave you with shattered sanity, a destroyed face, and a genetic anomaly that evil people want to take advantage of?)

(“It’s not your fault! It’s not your fault!” What is this, Good Will Hunting? Nothing’s my fault?)

(No, you killed a lot of people, only some of whom deserved it, and you mostly did it when you chose to and understood what was going on. _Those_ deaths your fault. So is the box, and everything you did to Weasel and Al. And _some_ of the people you killed.)

(Which side are you on, voice?)

(I’m your voice of reason.)

(Dammit, when did I pick up one of those?)

(Don’t ask me, I just work here.)

(So some stuff is my fault and some stuff isn’t my fault? What the ever-living _fuck_ am I supposed to do with that?)

(Look at the stuff that was your fault as a way to stop making shitty choices? Look at the stuff that wasn’t your fault and stop beating yourself up for them? Let go of the idea that you’re fundamentally poison and accept that you can change things for the better and that writing your choices off as you being poison is a shitty excuse to avoid the work of becoming a better person? Talk to the people who care about you and let them help you?) (

Fuck that! I’m going to kill everyone I need to kill in order to keep Ellie safe, and then get bloody revenge on everyone who dragged me into this mess, including the guiltiest motherfucker of them all.)

(*sigh*)

(Like who the fuck are you, leftover bits of Preston? The ghost of a self-help book writer? Some sort of indestructible murder-clown I accidentally absorbed, only instead of stabbing, you murder people with boring lectures on making healthy choices?)

(I’m you, Wade. I’m part of you that you’ve been ignoring for a very long time. And I’ll still be here whenever you’re ready to listen, although the longer you wait, the more mess you’ll have to clean up.)

(Well get ready for some mess, motherfucker, because you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!)


End file.
